


Restraint

by balloonstand



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 15:45:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19337593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/balloonstand/pseuds/balloonstand
Summary: Crowley has never been restrained before. Physically, that is. Handcuffs, ropes, chains- nothing like that. He wasn’t made to be contained. Not until this moment, in Heaven of all places. In Aziraphale’s body of all things.





	Restraint

Crowley has never been restrained before. Physically, that is. Handcuffs, ropes, chains- nothing like that. He wasn’t made to be contained. Not until this moment, in Heaven of all places. In Aziraphale’s body of all things.

He is tied to a chair in Heaven facing a tribunal of angels. He is _tied_ to a _chair_. He could almost laugh at it, but he is much, much closer to thrashing around in the chair and pulling at the ropes until they snap. But he keeps Aziraphale’s body as still as he can and his face as neutral as possible.

They had discussed the night before how carefully they must play their roles. Aziraphale had said, “If we don’t do this right- if we’re not convincing beyond a shadow of a doubt, it will all be for nothing.” In between his words he was saying, “If you aren’t convincing, I’m going to be tried as a traitor and killed for going along with your plan to save the world.” Well, maybe that wasn’t what he was saying. It doesn’t sound like the kind of thing he would say. But it’s the kind of thing that Crowley hears, and it’s how he chose to interpret it and what he is thinking about now.

Earlier that morning, he had dressed himself in Aziraphale’s clothing. First, he’d had to take the clothes off of Aziraphale’s body. One layer at a time. The jacket. He had draped it over the back of a chair because Aziraphale had kept it in tip-top condition for more than 180 years and Crowley understood what that meant. The tartan bowtie he had dropped on the floor. Aziraphale had bared his teeth at that, practicing what it would be like to be Crowley. It made Crowley shiver. He paused- thought about picking up the bowtie, but didn’t. Then, he took off Aziraphale’s vest and pocket watch.

“So many layers,” he had murmured. “Too many.” Aziraphale had just tilted his head at Crowley. He lifted his arms away from his body slightly so that Crowley could pull the vest off of him. It also landed on the floor.

He had undone the buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt out of order. The night before, he had undone done exactly like that out of urgency, his own and Aziraphale’s. That morning, he had done it deliberately. The shirt was warm to the touch and he had wanted to put it on right away and soak up that warmth like the sunshine. He put the shirt on the chair with the jacket.

Aziraphale had undone his own belt, pulled his own pants off of himself. He had folded them before holding them out to Crowley. He’d had a little smile on his face.

Crowley had dressed himself like a rewind of undressing Aziraphale. Pants. Shirt. Vest, pocket watch. Damned bowtie. Jacket. And Aziraphale had helped him. He did up Crowley’s buttons and adjusted the bowtie. He straightened the jacket. He had given him a thorough once-over and nodded his approval. He had looked slyly at Crowley and said in a happy voice, “There. You’re an angel.”

Crowley had always thought that Aziraphale brought him as close to redemption as he might ever hope for. It hadn’t been the right moment, but when Aziraphale had said _I forgive you_ , Crowley had thought that he might on the spot shed his demonic status like a skin. It had felt so good that it had hurt. And it isn’t just that; Aziraphale effortlessly exudes grace. Like a dog sheds its hair, Aziraphale exudes grace. And Crowley has trailed after him for six thousand years like a duckling after crumbs. Aziraphale sheltered him from the first rain with his wing, and Crowley has been following him ever since, with his hands outstretched.

But bringing him all the way back into Heaven itself- even Crowley hadn’t thought it would be possible for Aziraphale to bring him back here. He had never imagined he would see it again. Heaven is just the same as it was; he wouldn’t expect any different. Throughout the years, Aziraphale would sometimes mention Heaven in passing after a visit there or when he missed something about it. Crowley would squirrel these tidbits away to examine later. He’d lay all these stolen details out in his mind and compare them to his crystalline memories of Heaven, before he had Fallen. It had always seemed about the same, which disappointed him mildly. He couldn’t quite put his finger on why. Maybe he just liked the idea that his exile had affected Heaven even in some tiny, almost imperceptible way. But being here now, he sees that it hasn’t. Heaven is eternal, with or without Crowley. It’s exactly the way he remembers it.

The ropes around his wrists are the only surprising part of it. They are foreign to him as a part of Heaven and as a reality in his life. Hell, for all that it does, does not waste time with true restraints. He knows that even now as Aziraphale wears his body to his trial where he will be found guilty of betraying all the kingdoms and denizens of Hell, he will not be tied to a chair. There’s a certain honor about it. A freedom that Crowley hadn’t really noticed. Maybe this chair is a mistake. Heaven is supposed to be better than this.

So yeah, maybe he has thought about it. What it might be like to come back to Heaven as an angel. Not seriously, of course, but sometimes he thinks about it fleetingly, like when Hastur is being- well, himself. Or when Aziraphale is being a little too holier-than-thou. Or when the wind blows or the sun is setting or he’s tired. Every moment that he’s still Fallen. He doesn’t miss it. He certainly doesn’t want to return to the fold. He just thinks about it.

But the Heaven that he thinks about is the one that is welcoming. One that smiles at him when it sees that he is back. Maybe he has only been around one angel for too long, and he can only think of his angel when he tries to think of Heaven. A heaven that is Heaven like Aziraphale is an angel would never tie Crowley to a chair. Crowley doesn’t like being tied to a chair. He very much does not like it. His wrists were not made for ropes. He was not made to be contained in any way.

And then it hits him. Well, then it smothers him in a wave of fury that he has to struggle to keep off of his face. He’s been thinking about this wrong; these ropes aren’t tied around _his_ wrists at all. _He_ isn’t bound to a chair. The principality Aziraphale, angel of the Lord, is tied to this chair. Crowley’s Aziraphale. He could ignite with all this rage. He could turn into flame and burn the ropes away, burn the angels into annihilation, bring Heaven itself down in fire.

He doesn’t do it. He is restrained here. He focuses. He forces a small smile as the archangel begins to speak to him. Gabriel’s words are like the ropes too.

“Ah, Aziraphale,” Gabriel is saying. Crowley doesn’t like hearing Aziraphale’s name said like that, like a disappointment. How has Aziraphale put up with this for all these years, Crowley wonders. “So glad you could join us.”

 _Join us,_ that’s rich. Aziraphale would smile here, so Crowley tries to muster one. “You could’ve just sent a message. I mean, a kidnapping. In broad daylight.” He keeps his tone light but his words can’t really be softened.

“Call it what it was: an extraordinary rendition.” This time it is almost impossible to give Aziraphale’s responding smile. “Now, have we heard from our new associate?” Gabriel asks.

Behind him Uriel says, “He’s on his way.”

Gabriel acts delighted. “He’s on his way. I think you’re going to like this. I really do. And,” he says, bending down to be eye-to-eye with Crowley, his false delight slipping and the real malice beneath it showing through, “I bet you didn’t see this one coming.”

Crowley tries to focus, but his mind is tangled in a messy line of thought as he tries to understand these chains that he hadn’t known had been weighing his angel down. Being damned brings with it a certain measure of latitude that Crowley has never thought to appreciate. Hell knows it can’t really control him; apparently Heaven still thinks it can control its angels. So this is what his angel has been dealing with. Every time he has gotten that downtrodden look on his face as he explained that Gabriel sent him an irritated note, this is the voice he heard. This voice that says _you are nothing_ even when the words he speaks are different.

There is a freedom that comes with being Fallen, one that Crowley is still working his mind around. He has never thought his superiors were better than him. He has never cared what they thought of him beyond what mattered to his survival. Other demons don’t matter to him.

Then – speak of the devil, Crowley thinks sardonically – another demon walks in. Heaven is just lousy with demons, isn’t it? What is the neighborhood coming to?

“You don’t get this view down in the basement.” This is a demon who was not an angel once. He has never seen this view before. Crowley doesn’t look at him. He knows what he is here to do.

He keeps his eyes on the pyre as the demon lights it, following the pillar of flame up and up and out of sight. By the time he looks back down at the rest of them, the demon is gone and Gabriel is talking again. Crowley tries to listen like Aziraphale.

“So. With one act of treason, you averted the war.”

Crowley says as Aziraphale, “Well, I think the greater good-“

“Don’t talk to me about the greater good, sunshine. I’m the archangel fucking Gabriel. The greater good is we were finally going to settle things with the opposition once and for all.”

Crowley knows that his smile is too angry to be believable. He can’t help it. Aziraphale has given six thousand years to the greater good. And the only opposition that Crowley can see is the archangel fucking Gabriel who has never thought once about the greater good, or perhaps any good at all. Only the Great Plan.

Uriel steps forward and unbinds him. “Up.”

Crowley stands. For a wild moment, he believes in Heaven again and thinks that Uriel is freeing him. Or at least giving him a chance to defend himself as he stands on his own feet.

Bolstered by this hope, Crowley says, “I don’t suppose I can persuade you to reconsider? We’re meant to be the good guys, for Heaven’s sake.” It doesn’t hurt his mouth to say _Heaven’s sake_ this time.

Gabriel’s expression hardens. “Well, for Heaven’s sake, we are meant to make examples out of traitors. So,” he gestures at the fire, “into the flame.”

Crowley feels cold in the shadow of the Hellfire. The hope that had barely begun to flutter in him is stomped out. There’s nothing left in Heaven for him or for Aziraphale. And he had known that before. He’s almost certain that Aziraphale knows it too. They’ve both made that choice now. But, for a moment, there had been hope and now it is gone and there is only the nuclear shadow of it on his heart. Crowley promises himself that he will be patient with Aziraphale, gentle with his last bit of hope for Heaven.

The angels are looking impassively at him. Crowley approaches the column of flame reluctantly. It’s not that it might hurt him; he knows it won’t. For all that he’s wearing Aziraphale’s form and feeling Aziraphale’s hopes, he is a demon without any illusions of holiness. And yet. He’s inches away from the flames and it feels like Falling. And this time he’s even a good angel.

Doesn’t matter. He has chosen his side. 

He thinks about Aziraphale and gives them all a real smile, his first since coming to Heaven. “Well. Lovely knowing you all. May we meet on a better occasion.”

Gabriel says, “Shut your stupid mouth and die already.” His smile is as fake as any that Crowley has given him.

He and Aziraphale, they’re too good for this. That’s all that Crowley can think. He steps into the fire to show them.

He is ensconced in flame. It’s rather nice in there. Crowley imagines that this feels the way that laying out on a hot day feels to humans. He basks in it. He rolls his head on his shoulders stretching his neck and settling back into himself. Despite his body, he’s all Crowley now, no need to play as Aziraphale. He opens his mouth and breathes out his rage as flames.

The angels are recoiling from him. He smiles at them the way he would in his own body. _Good,_ he thinks. He has done what he needs to do here. Now, he can do what he wants to do here.

Heaven can never have Aziraphale again. He’s Crowley’s now. Crowley’s responsibility, his privilege, his life. He thinks about the ropes they had used on him. Crowley has freed Aziraphale from bondage before. He had miracled the wrist irons off of Aziraphale in the Bastille. He had sprung him from the first police station in Edinburg in 1853 after a misunderstanding concerning a farm cart and a carriage. Even his damn clothes – all those oppressive layers – Crowley had taken those off of him too.

And that’s the pit in the peach. The center of it all, the seed. It’s been six thousand years of _have I shown you what you showed me the first day we met?_ _Have I made you feel like that? Here, I’ll do that miracle for you, it’s on me. Here, I don’t want you to embarrass yourself. Here, can I give you a lift home? Here, just a little demonic miracle of my own, have your books_. He’s piling it around Aziraphale like offerings at an ancient temple. Aziraphale is the oldest religion in the world and Crowley is the first worshipper in the history of Creation. To give this much to Aziraphale feels like grace; to get it back from him as well, is something new to the universe. 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I know they didn't actually switch clothes but who cares


End file.
